


Sapphire Blue

by friedgalaxies



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, M/M, characters to be added as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-01-20 13:32:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12433911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friedgalaxies/pseuds/friedgalaxies
Summary: You’ve never met your fiance before. Frankly, you’ve never met a man before who wasn’t related to you, or was part of your father’s role running a kingdom and you had to sit and smile during dinner, hoping you didn’t screw everything up like you seemed to do every time. He’s already to be your beloved, so you aren’t sure how you can screw this up.Unless he utterly detests you, that is.You sure hope that isn’t the case.





	1. Drizzle

You’ve never met your fiance before. Frankly, you’ve never met a man before who wasn’t related to you, or was part of your father’s role running a kingdom and you had to sit and smile during dinner, hoping you didn’t screw everything up like you seemed to do every time. He’s already to be your beloved, so you aren’t sure how you can screw this up. 

Unless he utterly detests you, that is. 

You sure hope that isn’t the case. 

You tap your claws to your lips as you wait, anxiously watching out the rain fogged window. The storm overhead is petering off into light trickles, fat raindrops occasionally smattering against the glass. Your chambers remain warm, though, a fire roaring in the corner and a maid coming to stoke it every few hours. The grey cobblestone path leading to the winding courtyard has remained empty no matter how hard or how anxiously you stare at it. You tried composing a new piano piece earlier, possibly one to play at your wedding, but your hands shook far too much for the quill to do much but make streaky ink blots across the paper. You had cursed and thrown the balled up parchment across the room, dropping your head into your hands. You hadn’t even met him yet and he was doing terrible, horrible things to your gut, turning it into a hot, twisting knot that settled uncomfortably below your ribcage no matter what you tried to do. 

Your siblings had been instructed to leave you alone for the day, no matter how much you wanted to speak to them. Jerahd was likely asleep on his desk, worn out after attempting to review the manners and customs of Whitestone- where your fiance was from- with Drakkia and Faeryn before it devolved into a session of the two of them sharing vulgar jokes with each other that would make your father roll his eyes. 

There’s a knock at your door and you drop your chin into your hand, elbow on your writing desk, expecting it to be a maid come to stoke the fire again before he arrives. 

“Come in.” you mutter, just loud enough to be heard. Instead of being greeted with the quiet apologies for disturbing you, Master Tiberius, you’re startled as a ream of parchment makes contact with the back of your head. You spin around to see Drakkia grinning at you, smugly, arms crossed over her chest and pupils narrowed to slits. You pick up the ream from the floor, rubbing the back of your head, though it's more of an idle action than one of stifling pain. 

“What is this?” you ask, flipping through the pages as Drakkia carelessly falls back onto your previously neatly made bed, startling your dragonling, Lockheed, in his grandoise cage on the wall near it. He flaps small, acid green wings and hisses at her, thick birch branch creaking beneath his claws as he digs them in further. You’ve been too anxious to do much more than idly stand by his cage and distractedly coo at him. 

“Jerahd wrote it up for you. Took him all night, too.” She rolls over onto her stomach and grins at Lockheed, forked tongue flicking out of her mouth to rim a smoking nostril. 

Jerahd’s neat, blocky handwriting is littered neatly across the parchment, the front reading, “Customs And Mannerisms Of The Whitestone Prince”. You snort a bit, flipping through again, though you can’t bring yourself to focus on it. You set it aside, just barely missing your inkwell, and remove your glasses to drag a hand down your face. 

Drakkia throws a glance over her shoulder at you, looking concerned past her usual facade of careless bravado and a lax, joking attitude. She rolls off the bed, fighting her way through rumpled covers and bedclothes the maids will surely need to fix before your fiance arrives, though you aren’t sure anyone knows when that is. 

“You aren’t really that concerned, are you?” 

You sigh. “I don’t know, Drakkia. I feel… sick with nerves, I think, though I’m very much not sure of anything right now.” 

She moves to stand next to you, setting a comforting hand on your shoulder, looking much older than her nineteen years. You know the four of you have lived a fairly sheltered life, and the contrast between her usual casual demeanor and the Drakkia standing before you is sharp. You feel tears prick at the backs of your eyes and you inhale deeply, shakily, looking away so she can’t see her jovial older brother reduced to stressful, anxious tears. 

“Hey- Tiberius, don’t- don’t cry,” she laces her arms around your neck and you inhale the scent of her, slightly musty and a bit like the bitter chemicals you and Jerahd experiment with from time to time, a tinge of acrid metal on the surface. You can feel her chin pressing sharply into your shoulder and you know she’s clenching her teeth- she picked that habit up from you. 

“I’m not.” You both know you’re lying. 

You sit with her for a moment, feeling her warm sturdiness, though she is still smaller, and younger, and less muscular than you, she is solid, and she is your little sister, someone who has turned to you in her most fearful moments from things as simple as the dark shadows in her room as a child to the biting winds and howling storms that shook the castle during the winter months, filling you all with an impending sense of dread as you huddled around a fire, wrapped in woolen blankets, fear stinging the backs of your souls. 

“I’m fine-” your voice cracks, “I’m fine, Drakkia. Thank you.” You pat her shoulder, and she parts from you, her own eyes rimmed with the red of tears barely held back. You wipe at her eyes and smile, though it is nervous, anxiety brimming deeply in your chest. 

“If you say so. Dad wants us all downstairs before he arrives. You better get ready.” She socks you playfully on the shoulder and makes her way out of your chambers, the heavy door falling shut behind her. You hear the patter of her feet on the winding stone stairs leading up to your door and wait till they fade out to where you can no longer feel them before moving to collect yourself in front of the mirror. Tear tracks streak the scales of your cheeks and in the hollows above your eyes. You straighten your robes, throwing a dark green shawl over your shoulders. It was gifted to you for your birthday last year by a dear friend. She only ever visits sometimes, and only ever when the weather permits, but the shawl fills you with the comfortable feeling you always have when she’s near, though it is dampened somewhat by your nerves. You have not any idea what it’s made of, though it feels like springy moss in your hands and smells like the forest after a rain. If you sit still you can almost hear the faint tinkling of the bells around her ankles and the chains strung from the antlers she wears on her head when you wear it. 

You will your breathing even as you pace down the stairs, clutching the oaken guardrail tightly. A guard salutes you as you pass and you nod at him. 

You meet your family in the entry chamber, slotting in next to Faeryn, between he and your mother. She squeezes your hand tightly, comfortingly, and smiles warmly at you, hope in her golden eyes. You squeeze her smaller hand back and grin nervously. Faeryn bumps his shoulder with your’s and you’re nearly bowled over from surprise, even as it is his usual silent greeting. You straighten the shawl around your shoulders and stare ahead, past your father’s shoulder and into the middle distance, though you can’t bring yourself to focus past the slinging sheets of rain still falling. 

Carriage wheels creak down the cobblestone path and you tense, claws digging into your calloused palms. Faeryn glances at you out of the corner of his eye, silver pupils narrowing. Your force a wobbly smile, lip plates shifting uncertainly. 

“Any moment now,” your father murmurs, rubbing his hands together and clasping them in the small of his back. You mirror him, as it’s a behavior you picked up from him as a child when your greatest wish was to be just like him. 

The guards stationed at the front doors lever them open and the heavy oaken doors creak outwards, small, dark dots appearing on the stone of the entryway as rain flutters in. a small, harried group of people rushes in, your fiance among them. You inhale deeply and steady yourself, shoulders squared. 

You can’t pick him out as first, but then your father’s speech turns to rushing water in your ears and you clench your hands tightly behind your back, eyes widening slowly, as though you’ve been presented with something you cannot imagine would ever grace your doorstep, which, really, you have been. 

He’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen, shock white hair ruffled and the fringe dampened from the rain as he removes a heavy hood, settling it around his shoulders and adjusting fogged glasses. His skin is paler and more fine than porcelain, features like that of a doll. His nose is straight and narrow, cheekbones high but round and sloping gently down to a pointed chin, lips pink and pursed in what appears to be dissatisfaction, though, Bahamut above, you’ve never seen someone you’ve wanted to kiss more. 

It all freezes, though, as he replaces his glasses and looks up, and you’re sure you’re in a dream that you’ll wake up from soon with a heart left cold. His eyes are almond shaped and ever so slightly hooded, large and doe-like, though they’re only magnified by the large round glasses settled on the bridge of his nose. 

Those are the most blue eyes you’ve ever seen in your entire life. 

Sapphire blue. 

Delicate, snow white lashes flutter on his pinkened cheeks and you swear there are raindrops caught in them, glittering in the light like crystals. Sound comes back to you and you feel yourself jolt as your father’s hand lands on your shoulder, his stern face peering down at you, light catching on his brass scales like molten metal. 

“Right, Tiberius?” 

“Oh- uhm- o-of course, father.” You stammer over your words even more than usual, caught off guard, head spinning in time with the flustered beat of your heart. He turns to show you off to the small group gathered, hand braced on your shoulder in a vice grip. Your fiance looks disinterested. You wilt, tugging on the edges of the shawl Keyleth gifted you, deflated. 

“My eldest, Tiberius, and your betrothed. These are his younger siblings; Faeryn, Jerahd, and Drakkia. I’m sure you’ll get along with them all very amicably.” 

Your heartbeat rushes in your ears and you will the scales on your cheeks that have risen in lieu of a blush downwards. They don’t respond, of course. You can only hope he doesn’t know enough about dragonborn anatomy to understand the emotion behind it. You extend a hand, though you’re sure Drakkia will laugh about it later. Of course you’d be so formal with your betrothed. 

“Tiberius Stormwind. Welcome to Tyriex, or moreover, I assume, to Stormwind Castle. I do hope the weather didn’t hinder you too much. It hardly ever rains so harshly as it has been, I promise.” You cut yourself off before you can bumble any further, clearing your throat awkwardly. 

Instead of shaking your hand as you expected him to he lays his slender fingers delicately over your palm. His hands are softer than the finest silk you’ve ever held. 

“Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III. But please, call me Percy,” he says, smiling up at you with a practiced gaze, almost as perfect as a mask. It’s a reality you know as well, having been at your father’s side since you were old enough to understand what was going on had importance. Still, it makes you feel as though you’ve been given the moon and stars. Light refracts off your glasses and you’re glad he can’t see your eyes right now as you lean down to press a chaste kiss to the back of his hand, nostrils flaring and the barest puff of gentle heat rolling over his pale skin. 

“You’ve color to your cheeks. I assume it’s from the cold and rain?” You reluctantly remove your hand from beneath his in favor of lacing your arms together, his small hands in the crook of your elbow. You catch your breathe for a moment, imagining his slender, perfect fingers intertwined with your own calloused ones. 

“Of course. I thought Draconia was supposed to be warm, I was afraid I’d catch my death out there.” He hides a polite giggle behind his hand, lingering there for a moment, held in front of his face. You blink a few times, forcing yourself to look away. 

“Right. We should begin our tour before- before dinner. I’d imagine you’re starving after all that travel.” 

You need to walk slower for him, as you have several inches on him, though it seems from what you’ve glanced beneath the heavy cloak still settled around his shoulders that his legs go on forever. His chaperone follows along a few paces behind, and your siblings continue the trail out of courtesy. 

You show them to the library first, then past the ballroom, and the attached music room where you practice piano and Jerahd plucks fervently at his violin when he isn’t poring over books. 

“You know,” you say to Percy, as you pass the music room and continue on past your father’s study to the grand dining hall, “Father tried to make Drakkia learn violin when she was younger, but she ran the teacher off.” 

“I did not!” Drakkia splutters from behind. Faeryn and Jerahd chuckle at her and you grin into the middle distance, spotting Percy’s bemused look out of the corner of your eye. 

You finish the tour, ending up outside the door to his chambers- well, the chambers he’ll be in till your wedding night. The very thought makes the scales on your cheeks stand at attention and steam rise from your mouth. 

“Someone will call for you by dinnertime. I’ll just be right across the hall, though father says no horseplay.” You’d wink if you could, so you settle for a slight shift of your lip plates you hope he takes as a coy grin. 

He smiles and ducks inside his chambers, leaving you standing in the empty hallway, footsteps petering off down the staircase and a second set coming up. Servants with his bags, you’d imagine. 

You duck inside your chambers and close the door behind you, bracing your back against it and glancing over to Lockheed, where he sleeps, undisturbed, in the wicker basket in the corner of his cage. Little puffs of green smoke rise from his nostrils with each exhale like toxic clouds, though it doesn’t do much more than sting. You and Jerahd did an experiment on it. A bit of a reckless one, but still one nonetheless. 

You slide down the door till you hit the cold stone floor, shivering and wrapping Keyleth’s shawl around your shoulders. The fire has died down in the time you’ve been out of the room and embers glow beneath piles of black ash. You drop your head to your hands, groaning. 

“Oh, Lockheed,” you mutter, and its muffled by your arms and the layers of clothing swaddled around your person. You look up and Lockheed is awake, stretching like a tom cat in the sun, though he hates the cold as much as you do. 

“What am I going to do?” you ask him. He yawns. He does not have an answer.


	2. Flutter

You don’t even recall yourself falling asleep, only awakened when there’s a furtive knock at your door, Lockheed screeching from injustice at being disturbed in the corner of the room. You snap awake and attempt to collect yourself, sluggish, the cold stone beneath you having lulled you into a tentative slumber. Your vision is blurry no matter how much you rubs your fists against your eyes, and you recall that your glasses were balanced precariously on the bridge of your snout just a moment ago. 

“Master Tiberius?” comes a worried, muffled voice through the heavy door. You stagger onto your knees and feel around the ornately patterned rug taking up a vast majority of your bedchambers, the coldness of the stone uncovered around the perimeter of the room cutting into your knees. 

“J-just a moment!” you call back. You carefully crawl away from the door, painfully aware of the fact that glass and metal could be cutting into your skin and clothes at any moment. The soft clink of metal against wood faintly registers in the back of your mind and the door creaks open, smacking you square in the behind, and you fall forward, face first across the rug and narrowly avoiding your bedpost. 

“M- oh! Master Tiberius, what- what are you doing on the floor?” 

You roll over onto your back, and- there they are. 

“I… fell asleep, and then… I lost my glasses.” you clear your throat. “Is it nearly time for dinner?” 

The maid looks as though she is a few seconds from laughing at any moment, though she recovers well, though your face is burning with shame and all the scales along your cheekbones are raised at full attention. You right yourself and grab your glasses from the floor, cleaning them off on the shawl still wrapped around your shoulders. 

“Yes, sir. Your family is waiting for you and your fiance. I would’ve woken you earlier, but… your door was closed?” 

“Yes.” you clear your throat again, straightening your shirt sleeves. “I fell asleep against it, no need to apologize.” 

The maid quickly helps you dress for dinner and you wrap the shawl around your shoulders again, taking comfort in the mossy smell and texture. You do hope she can make it for the wedding, as she is your dearest friend. You’ll have to write her soon, she would love to know about this. 

You pace quickly down the stairs, claws tapping against the stone and revealing your hurriedness to the rest of the castle as the sound echoed throughout the castle walls. You wince and slow your pace minutely, hoping beyond hope that Percy isn’t there already- how terribly embarrassing it would be to be later to dinner than your fiance. 

How terrible an impression it would make of you to him as well. 

You shiver at the thought. 

You slow down to a walking pace as you near the dining room entryway, breathing deeply to mask the fact that you are severely out of breath. Something flashes in the corner of your eye and you glance over, spotting Percy coming down the hall from the same hallway you did, just a few feet behind. 

You pause and smile, motioning ahead of you through the doorway. He flashes a glittering smile at you as he approaches, walking alongside a well groomed older man who you can only assume to be his chaperone. Admittedly, you were too enraptured in Percy’s elegant features to think of much else, much less the playful bickering of your siblings trailing behind you and the man tagging along with them. 

“After you, Percy.” You flash a grin that you hope is charming, though your lip plates shift uncomfortably, as though they are out of practice. Which, frankly, they are. You’re not used to emoting much, considering Draconian social customs do not include that of facial expressions as those of humans and other humanoids do. Those meetings with the elven ambassador and his troublesome children, though you have grown to see them as friends, are endlessly tiring. 

“Thank you, Tiberius.” His voice is a little hoarse and he gives you a small nod as he enters, though you nearly trip over yourself making an addendum. 

“You can call me Tibs, you know.” 

“Oh?” He tilts his head like an inquisitive puppy, 

“Y-yes. My friends and siblings call me by it.” 

He gives a polite smile and goes ahead of you, pausing a few steps in in what you can only assume is confusion. Your family members are standing behind their chairs at their normal place settings, though two more chairs have been added on either side to account for your fiance and his chaperone. 

Your father, Kruvanis, is standing at the head of the table farthest from the door, your mother Penelope to his left and your youngest brother Jerahd to his left. You sit at the opposite head, normally your other brother Faeryn to your right and your sister Drakkia to your left, but chairs have been added between their seats and your’s. 

“Glad you found the dining room well, sir de Rolo, sir Gardiner.” Your father’s bassy voice greets the three of you, and you feel scales rising on your cheeks in embarrassment. You duck your head, finding your way to stand behind your own seat and looking expectantly towards Percy. He tentatively stands behind the chair to your right, seeming very much nervous and tense. You wouldn’t blame him- Faeryn cuts quite the imposing figure…. As do most of your family members, the only possible exclusion being Jerahd. 

You all get situated, and though he is very polite and well mannered, it seems as though Percy isn’t quite as familiar with Draconian customs as you would expect him to be as a prince. The servants bring out silver lidded platters of food, setting one before each of you and lifting the lids at the same time in practiced synchronicity. Steam rises and you feel yourself begin to salivate as you take in the array of boiled lobster on a bed of greens, poached snails in a lemony smelling broth, and roasted vegetables laid out in delicate arrays over the silver plates. 

“I hope the fare is to your liking, sir de Rolo,” Penelope says, leaning around Faeryn with a gentle rise of the lip plates in a delicate smile. She breaks into the lobster tail on her platter at the same time with a dexterous flick of her delicate claws and the crunch resonates through the room. You wonder for a moment if it’s a threat. 

“Please, madam, if I am to be your son-in-law we mustn’t be so formal. Percy will do, as I am hoping we are to be a bit more familiar than that.” 

Your heart batters against your chest and you drop your fork as he delicately flutters his eyelashes against alabaster cheeks, with just the barest tinge of pink to the rise of his exquisite cheekbones. You only hear the rattling of your fork against the darkly stained mahogany table when your father clears his throat, nostrils flaring in what you can only hope isn’t disappointment, though it likely is. 

“I can only assume the fare is much different than that of Whitestone, yes?” Jerahd asks, spearing roasted cucumber and potato on his fork. 

“Oh, yes, very much so. Whitestone has a much colder climate than Draconia, from what I have seen thus far. Tiberius tells me it doesn’t rain as often or as hard as it is now, though I’m very much used to it. No, there is, ah, much less seafood. None at all for the most part, frankly. And the fare itself is very hearty, a lot of bread and cabbage and meats put into thick stews, though there isn’t much differentiation. I’m ready to extend my palette.” 

You notice he and sir Gardiner were the only ones supplied with tools to break open their lobsters, which isn’t odd. Your siblings break into the dense red shells with volition, spearing thin white meat on ornate silver forks. 

“I haven’t ever had snails before either.” Percy mutters, regarding one in his spoon. You swallow your mouthful of vegetables and lean a bit in his direction, motioning with your fork. 

“You don’t eat the shells, you know-” you cut yourself off as you choke a bit on your cucumber, beating your fist against your chest a few times to clear it. He looks at you, brows furrowed in what appears to be both confusion and concern, spoon holding the snail and dripping lemon scented broth aloft above his silver bowl. 

“Well I very well know that.” 

His tone is incredulous, almost, as though you outright said you thought him a buffoon. 

“No, no, I didn’t mean that-” you clear your throat awkwardly. “You pick the snail up and, well, fish the meat out of it with your lips and tongue. I suppose the staff didn’t account as well for your… facial anatomy as they should’ve, I apologize. Dragonborn have rather dexterous tongues.” 

His ivory skin turns the red of your scales as you finish speaking, turning back to your dinner and scooping up a snail in your own spoon. Faeryn coughs and you hear your mother fret over him for a moment, patting him between the shoulders. 

“You alright, Faeryn?” you ask, concerned. 

“Fine-” he chokes out, waving away your concern. “I’m fine, don’t worry, just went down the wrong pipe.” 

You look up, in the middle of extracting the meat from the shell of a snail as you glance over at Percy. He’s staring down at his spoon still, bright red to the tips of his ears and down past his collar. You break the shell of the snail with your front teeth on accident, distracted. It falls into the bowl and broth splashes up against your hand, making you jerk back in surprise and nearly fling your spoon over your shoulder. 

Dinner passes without further incident, polite conversation being made. You wait for the servants to clear the platters away, standing in unison with your family. You bow to your father, as do your siblings, and the guests as well, before dismissing yourself to your chambers to think. You have much to stew on this evening. 

You wait till the sun dips below the horizon as the rain finally lets up, huge brushstrokes of orange and yellow and purple smeared behind the silhouetted treeline, shadows stretching long across the ground. Breathing out gently to light a candle, you gather up your writing implements when the wick catches and turn to leave the room. 

The library is the quietest place in the entire castle, though there are hardly rules on how loud one can be. It seems as though there is a thick veil of silence that separates the door of the library from the rest of the castle, all sound dampened as you enter. 

You make your way to your own table just to the side of the door, out of view of anyone passing by but still an excellent vantage point to see anyone entering. You set your things down on the table, taking your candle with you and scanning the shelves for the books you need. They’re heavy tomes, heavy enough that you can barely carry them in your arms. You attempt to set them gently onto the table but end up dropping them with a heavy thud that quickly dissipates into the high ceilings of the library, bouncing around the beams and shaking cobwebs strung between them. You sigh and settle down in the creaky wooden chair, flipping through the first volume. The red binding creaks beneath your claws and you lighten your grip, uncorking the ink pot with your teeth. You settle in for a long night of reading and writing, candle flickering with just barely enough light to work by. 

You’ve been working for Bahamut knows how long when a long shadow falls across the doorway, accompanied by shuffling footsteps, though they are not that of those accompanied by the click of dragonborn claws. You straighten, perching your spectacles higher on the bridge of your snout and inspecting your sleeves for ink blots. You’ve never been one to care much about your appearance, or, as your father would say, too oblivious to do so, but the prospect of his presence instills a tenacity in you to look better than you have before. 

You aren’t wholly sure why you wish to impress him so if you are to be wed no matter what. 

You catch a glimpse of shock white and know its him, wandering tentatively through the doorway and past the large armchairs in front. He glances around, adjusting his glasses and startling when he sees you. 

“Hello.” Your greeting seems to fall flat in the sheer vastness of the room. He comes closer, slowly, as though approaching a wild animal- though that might as well be what he sees you as. You are an imposing figure, with bright red scales and broad shoulders, just slightly smaller than Faeryn and only a bit shorter. True, your scales do not have the metallic sheen of that of the rest of your family members, and some still sneer when you inform them that you are the crown prince of Draconia, but you think yourself at least somewhat refined. 

“Oh. I didn’t expect to find you down here this late.” 

He patters over closer, in his night clothes as well, though there’s a heavy woolen shawl wrapped around him and held in place with a pin in the shape of the Whitestone crest. You wrap Keyleth’s shawl tighter around you, lamenting briefly in the scent of spring and a friend you cannot see often. You do hope her most recent letter arrives soon. 

“I am a bit of a bookworm and a studier beyond where most would care to go, I admit.” you chuckle softly to yourself, though there isn’t much humor in what you’ve said. You tap your quill incessantly against the table and will yourself to stop, but your wrist keeps turning. Damn your nerves. Would it kill him to be any less pretty? 

He settles down at the table next to you and adjusts the shawl around his slim shoulders, delicate hands sinking into the fluffy brown wool. The flickering candlelight gives it the appearance of chocolate swirled with caramel. You lick your lips briefly thinking about it, and catch the tail end of his gaze flicking down to your mouth. 

“Yes, I knew you liked to read. Thought it might even be something we could bond over, perhaps?” 

He reaches out to take one of the tomes scattered around the table, flipping the cover over to read the title embossed in gold on the dark blue fabric. You almost wince as your place is lost, though you see his thumb tucked into the pages where they had been opened, and you relax. 

“Ravenstein, yes? I do love his theories. What do you think of them?” 

He moves the book back to where it was, resting open on its spine, and knits his fingers together in the hem of the shawl, playing with the soft strands. You’re distracted by the deft movements of his fingers and almost forget to respond. 

“Oh, uhm, well. I believe they have room for improvement.” You clear your throat awkwardly, replacing the cork in your ink pot so it won’t dry out. And, if you’re being honest with yourself, so you’ll have something to do with your nervous hands. 

You grip the fabric of your night clothes, worrying the silk between the pads of your thumb and forefinger, fingers of your other hand anxiously tapping in a senseless beat against your leg. 

“I agree. Especially what he says about tieflings. They’re such interesting folk. I know most of them prefer anything but the incessant cold of Whitestone, though, the ninth circle of hell is cold.” 

You chuckle softly and flip through the volume open in front of you, pages yellowed around the edges and crinkling beneath your hands. 

“I will admit I haven’t met many a’ tiefling, though they must be interesting folk, I’m sure. Ravenstein describes them as classless outcasts, though that may just be his own experience. Ravenstein isn’t quite the man of science I would have hoped he was, his methods and patterns leave some documentation to be desired. I’m not doing anything important with them, at least.” 

He sets his elbow on the table, delicate chin held in one elegant hand, blinking up at you owlishly through large circular lenses. Smaller circular lenses are attached on vertical hinges at the outer upper corners of the frames. You suppose he flips them down for magnification when working on delicate projects. You heard he’s quite the tinkerer. 

Maybe he’d like to come down to your’s and Jerahd’s chemist workshop, where you perform experiments with an array of dangerous and fun things. Most recently you received a small shipment of Drow poison and were going to test the corrosivity of it on inorganic materials. Though, that experiment had been halted because of the arrival of your fiance. Mother had said she greatly preferred that the vast majority of the castle didn’t smell like toxic chemicals. 

“-iberius?” he asks, concerned. You blink a few times, adjusting your glasses. 

“Sorry, I was lost in my own thoughts for a moment. What did you ask?” 

“If you aren’t doing anything important with them, then what are you doing with them?” 

“Oh. well.” The scales along your cheekbones flutter in time with your quickening, embarrassed heartbeat. “I-I was… compiling notes about humans and… their customs, as I am not the most knowledgeable. I was hoping to not embarrass myself completely upon meeting you.” 

You duck your head, twiddling your quill between your fingers. The tiny, inflexible scales along the backs of your hands click against the hard rachis of the owl feather quill. 

You look up as you feel something alight lightly, warmly on the back of your hand. He looks at you, a genuinely… impressed? Concerned? Something, but it reminds you of the look a puppy might give you, with big, round, soulful eyes, the clearest blue of the first ice of the winter across a frozen pond. The slightest downturn of soft pink lips, fine eyelashes fluttering back against his high brow, a gaze like the finest of oil paintings. You haven’t ever met many humans, nor any as pretty as he, but… you think you might be in love. 

“Tiberius, you didn’t have to do that. I wouldn’t have expected that of you.” he offers, hand still lain on the back of your own. You glance down at them. His hands are so small compared to your’s. 

“But… I wanted to. I wanted to impress you.” 

He blinks a few times and those delicate, snow white lashes flutter against his cheeks, which grow pinker by the second. You tilt your head quizzically, scales along your nose ridge rising in a display of confusion and concern as he closes his eyes and leans towards you, pink lips puckered ever so slightly in a soft pout. 

“Percy, are you quite alright?” you ask, running your thumb over the back of his hand. 

He opens his eyes, blinking a few times, and his eyes grow wide, seeming impossibly large behind his round glasses. His hand jerks back from beneath your’s and flies to his chest, his free hand going to grab the candle in its holder and barely missing. 

“I- I’m sorry, I think- I’m terribly sorry-” He stands up from his chair so quickly the wooden feet scrape against the floor with a horrid screech, making you wince as the sound echoes sharply through the library and falls flat, clinging to the ceiling. 

“Percy, where are you-” 

“I’m- I’m suddenly very tired- bed- going to bed-” He weaves around the tables and scurries out the door, previously soft, padded footsteps turning to sharp claps against the stone. You listen to them echo till you can hear them no longer, and then let your head fall against the table. 

You might just be in love with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to percy for reviewing this for me and letting me bounce ideas off of him during the process! he's a great beta and a great friend to talk about tibercy with and just a wonderful person in general, i owe half this fic to him.


	3. Cold

It’s been several days since… that night, in the library with Percy, but you haven’t seen him around for anything but meals. The castle feels far too quiet, far too large without his bright blue eyes lighting up the room, his soft giggle like the music you dance with him to in your dreams. 

You’re ripped out of a daydream, sitting in your study with the door propped open, cloaks piled over your shoulders- with Keyleth’s shawl underneath it all, of course. You’ve taken to rubbing the corner of it between the pad of your thumb and forefinger when you’re nervous, which tends to be more often than naught these days. Just thinking about him makes the scales along your arms rise in nervous, conflicted patterns, the pebbly scales at your throat darkening in shades of red. 

You drop your quill as you hear footsteps through the quiet hallway, much more practiced and purposeful than that of a servant. You catch the glimmer of copper scales out of the corner of your eye, the light, barely detectable excepting the clicks of her claws against the stone footsteps of your little sister echoing through the hallway. Sharp clicks of hard heeled shoes accompany them, and Percy comes into view in the doorway, a soft blue jacket made of some material you’ve never seen before settled about his shoulders, pinned with marbled ivory hooks across his front. 

“Lady Stormwind!” he calls out to Drakkia, a bright grin plastered across his face, his cheeks turning pink at the apples, and you feel your heart skip a beat. 

“Huh? Oh, you can just call me Drakkia.” Drakkia stops, towering over him, though she’s only a bit taller than your mother Penelope, the shortest of your family members. She shares a similar build with Percy, an exemplary rougish archetype, though her shoulders are much broader than his by what seems like miles. 

“Drakkia, then.” He folds his hands at his stomach, still grinning, and candlelight from the wall sconces glints off his owlish glasses. “I’ve heard you’re quite the accomplished fencer, and I would hate to fall out of practice, do you mind sparring with me for a bit?” 

Drakkia’s grin widens, flexible lip plates lifting high enough that there’s a squint to her eye, and she rubs her calloused hands together in anticipation. “I’d love to! I’ll take you down to the training room- we should have a fencing suit that fits you well enough. You look about my mother’s size.” she chuckles and thumps him lightly, amicably, on the chest with the back of her hand. Even so he still stumble back a few steps, adjusting his glasses. 

“That’s quite alright,” he says, rubbing his chest, “I’ve brought my own from home.” 

You haphazardly shove the cork back into the ink pot open on your desk, nearly knocking over a stack of grimoires in the process and sending all your hard work flying. You wait a few seconds before following, taking a sharp turn towards the staircase leading to your chambers. Faeryn’s chambers are on the opposite wall of your’s, door unlocked, as they usually are. 

You barely tap your knuckles against his door before entering, already shedding most of the cloaks you have draped around your shoulders. The temperature has dropped significantly since Percy arrived, almost as if Draconia were attempting to mimic his home climate of Whitestone. You shiver just thinking about spending so many, many months in the cold, snowy winter there, with barely any sun in the summer, and no access to the ocean. 

“Faeryn-” you start, and his head snaps up from where he’s reading by the large, roaring fireplace, settled back in a comfy chair, muscles already tense to jump on an intruder. He relaxes as he recognizes who you are, though your harried state seems to concern him. You only doubt his concern because of the lack of emotive expressions that run through your family, excepting Drakkia in most cases. 

“Tibs. What has you all in a hurry? You scared me.” 

“If I scared you then maybe you shouldn’t leave your door unlocked all the time.” 

“Well, dear brother, most people don’t barge into their brother’s rooms like they have a demon on their tail.” 

You frown, because he’s right. 

“I need your help.” 

“With what?” he asks, already standing and tossing his book onto the chair. It bounces back open from the soft cushion. 

“I need you to fight me.” 

“...Excuse me? Did I hear you correctly?” 

You wave your hands frantically to clear the air, tossing your stack of cloaks across the back of a nearby chair. 

“Please, I’ll explain on the way. We’re going to the training room.” 

“You make it sound like we are going on some sort of secret mission.” 

He follows you, a hulking silver shadow, though he’s just a bit taller than you. His broad shoulders strain most shirts, no matter how much the seams are let out. He’s, somehow, not gotten the door beaten down by willing suitors, though it could be from his constant imposing glare and stoic appearing demeanor that those outside of your family find off-putting. 

“Percy wanted to spar with Drakkia, they’re both fencers, you know- a-and he hasn’t been talking to me, but I want to talk to him again, and I need a reason to be down there, so I thought if you and I went down to spar it might- might give me an excuse,” you motion wildly with your hands as you walk to the training room nearly at the opposite end of the castle. Foot traffic of servants lessens as you approach the training room, which would make sense. The closest room is the medical room, immediately outside the training room in case of accidents during training and sparring. You spent a lot of your childhood post and pre training in there, usually with a black eye, scales ripped and rubbed off, or knocked out teeth. 

You sigh. Good times, those days. 

You peek into the training room, clinging to the doorway so hard your claws squeak across the stone. Percy and Drakkia are lunging at each other, sparring with the finesse of highly trained professionals, masters who have turned a sport into an art. You wonder if your… feelings for Percy are influencing your view on it. 

“Alright- try and look like you didn’t mean to end up here.” 

Faeryn raises a brow ridge at you, nostrils flaring amusedly. 

“Calm down, Tiberius.” He claps you on the shoulder, striding ahead of you and already beginning to unbutton his nearly knee length tunic. 

Drakkia lifts her mask, panting, grinning at her two oldest brothers. Her suit is immaculate, buckles primly latched, straps settled tightly over her limbs, form fitting and protecting her from the threat of puncture wounds. Percy is similarly suited, though his lacks the even higher collar, tail base padding, and adjusted claw foot form necessary for admitting dragonborn anatomy. His suit is a darker color than those you’re accustomed to, a starchy black fabric trimmed with dark blue and brass buckles glinting on his shoulders like that of your father’s scales. It’s form fitting, though must provide some kind of flexibility if he’s been able to evade Drakkia so. He turns to face you, having had his back to the door, and you regret alerting Drakkia to your presence. The suit fits very nicely everywhere, it seems, clinging tightly in all the right places. 

He unbuckles his mask and lifts it, tossing it to the side and carding his fingers through his white hair, pushing his sweaty bangs off his forehead, cheeks flushed red from exertion. Your heart squeezes in your chest and your thoughts almost drift somewhere highly improper, though Drakkia’s voice cuts through the fog in your mind. 

“Didn’t expect to see you down here!” she tucks her mask beneath her arm, idly turning her fencing foil in her hand. The handle is worn, having been wrapped and re-wrapped with cloth many a’ time over the course of her fencing career, which is nearly as long as she’s been alive and able to hold a foil. 

“I have had some excess energy, being cooped up inside,” Faeryn offers, shucking his tunic to the side. It flutters down onto a bench and he’s left with just an undershirt, tucked neatly into his pants. You follow suit, Keyleth’s shawl and your teal tunic joining the steadily growing pile of clothes on the nearby bench against the far wall. Drakkia’s overshirt and Percy’s coat are there already, the latter folded much more neatly than the former. 

“Were you hoping to fence?” Percy asks, tugging at his collar. His cheeks are even redder than they were before, somehow, and he isn’t looking at you or Faeryn, scuffing the toe of his boot along the ground distractedly. You swallow thickly. 

“I- ah- well-” you start, but Faeryn cuts you off, stretching an arm across the front of his chest and grinning. 

"I was thinking we could wrestle. You up for it, Tiberius?” 

You shrug, beginning to stretch as well. “I suppose, but isn’t it a bit too cold for that? We’ll need to strip down a bit more- father would kill us if we ripped these pants.” 

“Might as well take them off, then. Do you think we have any wrestling singlets in the equipment closet?” Faeryn begins walking towards the equipment closet a few feet away from the door, which now sits ajar. You begin to unbutton your pants as he looks for the key. You’ve only got a second to think it might not be incredibly appropriate to strip down to your skivvies while in the presence of your fiance, who, while you’re arranged to be married to, haven’t married quite yet, when you hear Drakkia exclaim, “Percy, you’re very red, you alr- oh, Bahamut! Tiberius!” 

You spin around, formalities forgotten when you see Percy, on the ground in a heap, unmoving, his foil mere inches from having piercing his stomach. Drakkia crouches at his side, patting his face insistently but gently, muttering to herself. You rush over to her, falling to your knees and undoubtedly bruising them, though that’s a matter for another time. 

His baby blue eyes blink open, red cheeks having faded to a dull pink, though color is quickly returning to them. His glasses are askew, part of his eyes having their usual owlish magnification, like looking into a shattered mirror. 

He looks up at you, jaw slack, blinking a few times, already attempting to sit up. You press a hand to his shoulder, firmly, sternly. 

“Oh,” he whispers, voice light and faraway, high pitched, like that of the chime of a church bell in the distance. 

“You fainted,” Drakkia mutters, sitting back on her heels. 

“I’m fine,” he insists, attempting to sit up again, though you put more pressure onto his shoulder to keep him down. 

“You aren’t,” you say, and the gravelliness of your voice surprises you. “I’ll take you back to your chambers.” 

“Tiberius-” Faeryn starts, but you raise a hand, jaw set. You stand and roll your shoulders once, twice, leaning down and sliding your arms beneath his knees and behind his shoulders. He’s limp, much lighter than you thought he would even be, though your estimates aren’t far off. You hold him to your chest, cradled like he’s your bride, and the thought makes your heartbeat stutter, flustered and frustrated. 

He makes a small, almost surprised sound when you lift him, carefully treading across the soft mat across the stone floor. You hunch your shoulders over him as you walk through the doorway, turning so he won’t be knocked about so soon after fainting. 

“You’re lucky we were down here and not some place like the library, where you could’ve hit your head,” your murmur after a few moments of silence, claws clicking against the cold stone floor. You already feel the chill of the stone setting into your bones, now that you aren’t wearing as many clothes, muscles tensing with cold though you urge your movements not to slow. 

“I wouldn’t have fainted in the library.” His voice is muffled against your chest, curled in on himself like he’s ashamed. 

“And why is that? Have you been eating? Getting enough sleep? You needn’t strain yourself.” You sigh, exhaling deeply. “I didn’t mean to interrogate you. I just… worry. You’ve been avoiding me these past few days. Did- did I do something wrong?” 

Theres the slightest crack to your voice you deeply wish hadn’t appeared, as it echoes through the halls. You begin climbing the stairs to his chambers, stepping carefully. 

“No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. I was worried you’d hate me.” His voice gets quieter as he speaks till you almost can’t hear him. 

“Why on earth would I do that?” You push open the door to his chambers with your foot, glad it was left ajar, for whatever reason. You almost avert your eyes for the sake of modesty, though you’d more than likely trip and fall, which would mean Percy would be injured. You’re a lot heavier than he is, and a considerable amount larger. 

You set him gently in the middle of his bed, fluffing up the pillows beneath his head and tossing a blanket from the day bed overtop of him. He looks so very, very small, almost drowning in the large bed. 

“Here, let me take these,” you gently lift his glasses from his face with the tips of your claws, folding the arms back and setting them nearby on the bedside table. “I’ll have a servant bring you some water, and something to eat. You still look pale.” 

“I always look pale.” he murmurs, covers drawn up to his chin. He blinks sleepily a few times, and you make a note to not have him woken if he falls asleep. 

Against your better judgement you brush a few wispy white strands of hair away from his eyes and tuck them behind a slightly pointed ear, almost as if he’s got some very distant elvish blood. The de Rolo bloodline runs pure as far back as many generations as anyone knows, as far as you’ve been told and, admittedly, have snooped. Too pure, in some cases. Your snout wrinkles with a tinge of disgust at the thought. 

“Are you going to leave?” he asks weakly. Even without his glasses his eyes are large and doe-like, framed by white eyelashes like wisps of cotton. You look down at him, a small, soft smile replacing the disgust on your face. You’d hate if he thought you were disgusted with him and started avoiding you again. 

“No, not till you’ve fallen asleep, I promise.” 

“Mm. Good.” His slender fingers curl around the edge of the blanket lain overtop him and his eyes flutter closed, pink lips parting in a relaxed, sleeping pout. You tuck the blanket in further around him, gently stepping along the stone floor as to not make any noise. 

His desk is already littered with stacks of letters, assumedly to be sent home to his family in Whitestone. Curiosity betrays you and you creep over towards them, glancing over your shoulder to make doubly sure he’s asleep before he catches you reading through his private letters. The tightness of shame grips your heart but you need to know, or it might just eat you whole. 

The letters are all written in a light, looping hand, perfect lines without deviation like yours tend to be when you write, especially considering you write so fast. The parchment is crisply folded, free of ink blots and wrinkles. You unfold the letter on the very top of the stack, scanning it for an addressee. 

“Father,” it reads, and you feel your pulse quicken. “I have arrived safely in Draconia. The weather is like that of home, though I have been informed it is hardly like this any other time of year. I am incredibly bored already, and it has not even been a full month yet. He is a terrible boor who blathers on about nothing for hours on end. I cannot say I’m even impressed with his intellect. He is also a terrible shut in, the only company I have been able to find is in his siblings, who are all of a similar persuasion. I-” You drop the letter, unable to read any more, not even bothering to fold it again. You briefly register that the next letter is addressed to Vesper, who you believe to be his oldest sister, though you can’t be sure of anything with your thoughts racing like this. You stumble to the door and draw it jerkily shut behind you, wincing at the sharp creak of the hinges. 

“Master Tiberius!” 

An unfamiliar voice cuts through the quiet and you wince, glancing over your shoulder. 

Percy’s chaperone stands behind you, a distinguished older gentleman greying at the temples and with just a few wrinkles near his eyes and mouth to show his age. He looks… affronted? Surprised? You can’t tell- the new revelation you’ve found in Percy’s letter has shaken you beyond what you thought you were capable of. 

“Were you just in master Percival’s private chambers?” 

“I- I was- please, you need to understand-” you stammer out, and it feels like your tongue is made of lead. The walls feel as though they’re closing in, the dark stone looming over you higher than it ever has before. You distantly feel cold, as though your body isn’t your body anymore. 

The only thought that runs through your mind as you fall, limply, coldly, towards the cool stone floor, is that you are in so, so much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> perce n i got real shooketh this chapter huh


	4. Blink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now for a chapter in Percy's POV! There may be a couple more like it in the future (:3c) but for the most part they'll stay in Tiberius's point of view.

You wake up feeling both far too light and far too heavy at the same time, a thick blanket drawn up around your chin. Norris stands at the foot of the bed you’ve been stuffed into, a mountain of feather pillows fluffed up in a cloud behind your head and shoulders. You clear your throat, blinking blindly at your blurry surroundings, feeling around for your glasses before you distantly realize they must have been placed on your side table by whoever shepherded you into the bed in your chambers- your guest chambers, that is, till the wedding night. The very thought makes a rosy pink rise to your cheeks.

You’re only able to recognize Norris through the familiar, slightly-sloped-with-age proud, triangular shape of his shoulders in a Whitestone blue suit jacket and the gray-peppered mousy brown of his hair. He starts and moves towards you as he notices your awakening, slowly becoming clearer the closer he approaches. He slides your glasses onto your face and you wriggle free one slender hand from beneath the gratuitous covers to adjust them on your nose.

“Thank goodness you’re awake, your highness. You must’ve fainted, all I know is that master Tiberius was exiting your room when I caught him in the halls,” Norris explains as he mops sweat from his forehead with a kerchief.

The knowledge that he had been in your chambers, tucked you into your bed, _carried_ you against his _chest_ , makes a veritable fire flare up across your face. Your glasses steam up and you push them up over your forehead in favor of burying your face in your hands. You hear Norris’s noise of concern but you’re much too flustered to take that into account.

“It seemed he fainted as well, though I can’t be sure, my grasp of Dragonborn medical conditions is sorely lacking. I do know that they don’t fare very well in the chill, and his lack of a tunic surely mustn't have been helping.” Norris continues unabated, apparently not aware of what this knowledge is doing to you. Your gut twists in embarrassment, just thinking about how small and pitiful you must’ve looked in his strong... muscular, bare arms….

“Is he alright? Have you checked on him?” The concern in your voice makes it crack and you wince. Norris, having known you since you were but a wee thing, knows you better than most, but you’d at least like to think your cool and calm facade had stayed strong for the most part around him. Not that that mattered anymore, now.

“Yes, yes, of course, your highness. I called for a servant to take him to the medical chambers, I’m sure he’s fine. Right as rain, even.” He glances at a chain watch tucked into his breast pocket. “If you’re feeling well, it’ll be time for dinner very soon.”

Norris helps you stand and wash your face, and the blurriness fades from your mind as he helps you dress. You preen for a few minutes in a hand mirror before venturing downstairs, hoping to salvage whatever positive reputation Tiberius- Tibs, a rosy voice in the back of your head reminds you- may have left of you.

To your surprise, the head of the table opposite Kruvanis is empty, and the gathered members of the family soon sit down after your arrival. You lean over to… Faeryn, you think, concern evident in your voice as you ask him a question in hushed tones.

“Will Tiberius not be joining us for dinner?” Faeryn shakes his head, adjusting the tight collar of his tunic with a single, well worn claw.

“No, unfortunately.” The deep bass rumble of his voice almost feels like its shaking you, now that you’re this close to him as he’s speaking. On the contrary to his rather talkative family members, you haven’t heard him speak much. He appears to be of the strong, silent, imposing type, from your observations. Hopefully there’s a soft heart of gold (silver?) beneath his rough exterior. You haven’t been brave enough to broach the subject of what he thinks of his siblings to Tiberius quite yet.

“He fell and got a quite nasty bump to the head earlier, and managed to break his glasses as well-” you hear a faint snicker that seems to be coming from his sister’s seat at the table- “and he’s blind as a cave bat without those. They’re beyond the use of his mending spell, so there’s a new pair being crafted for him shortly. He’s resting in his chambers, now.”

“Good, good. Well- it’s not good that he’s not here- o-or that his glasses are broken-” you stammer, nearly missing stabbing your fork into your plate instead of the fatty salmon filet plated elegantly on it. Faeryn cuts you off with a gentle baring of his front teeth you’ve taken as a small smile. It feels… odd, being the most emotive of the bunch. You’re aware that there are certain intricacies to the very subtle Dragonborn body language, but it’s taking you a while to become accustomed to it. You’ve noticed the small, almond shaped scales along Tiberius’s cheekbones rise a lot when you’re with him. You’ll have to ask about that.

Maybe his mother, Penelope? She seems the least intimidating out of the bunch, though that display she showed at the very first dinner… just thinking about it sends a frightened chill down your spine.

You catch Penelope after dinner, gently placing a gloved hand on her arm. You’re surprised to feel that her upper arm ripples with muscle beneath the intricately woven sheet of golden scales and the delicately fashioned, airy silk sleeves of her dress. She towers over you, something you’re not used to, seeming much, much more imposing now that you’re up close. Her eyes have a gentle, maternal look behind them, something that reminds you of your own mother back home in Whitestone, and you stifle a homesick sigh.

“Yes? Has the evening been finding you well?” Her chartreuse eyes almost twinkle.

“Oh, yes, very much so, my lady. I was wondering…” you thread your fingers together at your chest, nervously twiddling your thumbs. “I was wondering if it would be wholly improper if I were to visit Tiberius in his chambers before retiring for the evening. I am rather concerned about him.”

She smiles, and you almost detect a hint of mischievousness, but it’s more likely your imagination than anything. She takes one of your hands in her own and pats the back of it gently, her touch much lighter but also much stronger than you expected it to be at the same time.

There’s quite a lot about this family you’re better off not to take at face value, you’re slowly learning.

“Of course, of course. I trust the both of you not to get up to anything too awfully exciting this soon. Take sir Gardiner with you, please.” She winks at you, so quick you almost don’t catch it, and takes her leave down the stone hallway, humming a gentle tune under her breath in a buzzing hum at the back of her throat that carries down the hall and floats up to the vaulted ceilings.

You blink a few times in surprise, the warmth from her hands still lingering on your’s, and quickly gather Norris up with you.

A maid is just leaving as you step around the doorway at the top of the staircase, curtsying to you as you pass and shuffling quickly down the hallway with her head held low. You steel yourself with a deep breath, shoulders set back, and gently knock the backs of your knuckles against the heavy wooden door. It takes a few moments, but you hear the clearing of his throat and a small, “come in,”.

Tiberius is tucked up in nearly as many blankets and pillows as you have on your own bed, holding a book at arm’s length to read it. You almost giggle and then remember your manners, glancing over at Norris for his next move.

“I’ll leave you to your conversations, your highness.”

Norris steps right outside the door, leaving it ajar. You slowly approach Tiberius, like you would a startled, wild animal. He blinks at you a few times as you approach, green-yellow eyes seeming that much bigger and more dragon-like without those silly little wire-framed spectacles sitting on the bridge of his snout.

“... hello.”

He cracks the slightest grin and the scales along his cheekbones lift again, fluttering like the wings of a thousand tiny butterflies. He sets his book down on his lap, tucking a fabric bookmark in to keep his place. “Good evening.”

“There’s no need to be so formal, you know. I hear you cradled me against your chest like your br- like a baby. Is this true, sir Stormwind?” you tease, dragging over a stool to sit on at the edge of his bed. You keep a respectful distance, both out of manners’ sake and because you register that he must be awfully farsighted.

He clears his throat, scratching at the side of his jaw. “Yes, well, that is true indeed. You were sparring with Drakkia, and Faeryn and I came down to the training room just- just in time to catch you fainting.”

“Is that all that happened? I could’ve sworn there were a few more events between sparring with lady Drakkia and fainting. Though, I could’ve hit my head on the way down, no?”

The scales along his jaw rise now, standing at full attention and making it look a bit like he has round, puffy chipmunk cheeks. He ducks his head, scratching at the base of a horn.

“Yes, well, there may have been a few more happenings in that time, yes…”

“Oh? Would you care to recall them for me?” You attempt a coy smile that comes out more like a grimace, and you’re infinitely glad you’re likely not much more than a vaguely Percy-shaped white and blue blob in his vision right now. Usually you’re much better at this. C’mon, Percy, get back on your game! What is it about this goofy red Dragonborn that- that makes your heart do flips into your throat whenever you try to talk to him?

“Faeryn and I… may have gone down to the training room ourselves in favor of a bit of… a hand-to-hand sparring match?”

“What kind of sparring match? Something that warrants the removal of several articles of clothing?”

“... maybe. We- we might have been… wrestling- or angling to wrestle, at least. We didn’t quite get around to it. Father would’ve had our hides had we torn any of our clothes, and neither of us are known to be very… gentle when it comes to wrestling. You know how brothers are.”

You grimace. You do know how brothers are. Much more than you’d care to admit, frankly.

He takes your beat of silence in alarmed fashion, raising his hands like he’s going to brace himself on something. Or for something.

“I-I’m sorry- d-did I overstep? I didn’t mean to, goodness, I-”

You cut him off by gently alighting your hand on his forearm, which stills him immediately, as he had been nervously motioning with his hands as he rambled. He stills like a game animal that’s just been spotted by a hunter, eyes wide and head cocked towards you.

“It’s fine, really, don’t worry about it. I appreciate your concern, it’s quite sweet, but don’t work yourself into a fervor, if at least for my sake.” You force the wobble out of your voice as few words in as you can, but he still seems to catch it if the slight furrow of his brow ridges are any indication.

“I’ll leave you to your rest. I need to be retiring for the evening anyway.” You stand, smiling, even though it’s just more white in the vaguely Percy-shaped blob in his vision. “Goodnight, Tiberius.”

“And, by-the-by,” you pause, hand on the door frame, raising your voice just enough for him to hear you across the chamber. “You look very handsome without your glasses.” You hear his choked splutter of surprise as you all but bolt out the door and across the hall to your room, feeling your heartbeat all the way in your temples. You just did that, didn’t you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOO BOY sorry for the hiatus! Chronic fatigue sure is a bitch ain't she. Expect this to be picking back up with about the same posting pace it had before now that I've got a little more time on my hands.


	5. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now back to Tiberius's point of view!

The weather finally lets up, the sun shining brightly with a warm golden light that refracts off your family’s scales in fractured squares through the castle windows. You’re cleared to peddle around the grounds as usual, but despite the sunny weather that seems to draw everyone outside to the gratuitous, lush gardens, you find yourself in your and Jerahd’s shared basement workshop. 

The smell of heavy chemicals and gunpowder stagnates the air, filtering through the mask you have placed over your snout. Jerahd wears a similar mask, goggles secured over his eyes, made large to accommodate for his glasses underneath. You both wear long sleeved tunics of a thick brown fabric, aprons with a hem that rise high up over your chest tied securely overtop and black gloves of a thick, almost slippery material squeezed over your hands nearly up to the elbow. 

Jerahd ever so carefully, ever so slowly, pours a vial of almost gelatinous Drow poison into a beaker, the watery dark purple of the gel slowly breaking apart in a lilac swirl in the mixture already in the half full beaker. Jerahd’s eyes are wide behind the goggles, a quiet chittering noise emitting from beneath his mask at the back of his throat, one of both excitement and nervousness. 

A green-purple cloud of smoke rises from the beaker near immediately, dispersing into the room and carrying with it the sickly-sweet scent of rotten flowers. You quickly stir the concoction with a glass stir rod, watching the Drow poison dissipate into the clear mixture and leaving it with only a vague purple tint. You hesitantly remove your mask from a few feet away, eyes trained on the beaker in case it decides to get any ideas. 

Slowly approaching it, it appears to have no detectable smell. You check your own pulse and it isn’t slowing or speeding up- a slowing pulse is an indication of slow poisoning by Drow poison. The mixture appears harmless now, lacking any color, scent, or vapors that are detectably harmful. 

You gape, excited, emitting a rather undignified noise of excitement. You throw your hands up in pride, gloves squeaking as you tighten your fists. 

“It worked!” you exclaim, nearly hopping about in excitement. Jerahd nods fervently and begins scrawling down notes in his scientific journal, kept under lock and key when not in use and permanently carrying with it the light scent of chemicals and rotten eggs. 

“I believe that's one of our biggest breakthroughs we’ve ever made, dear brother!” Jerahd begins cleaning up your experiment, carefully disposing of it in a large metal basin where it's flushed out through a long pipe to a place far, far outside the castle grounds where it's possibility of hurting anyone is very low. You both putter around your underground lab, cleaning and putting away materials, chattering excitedly to each other about your newest experiment. Jerahd claps you on the shoulder, excitement making his bright eyes twinkle, and you grin at each other. 

“Let’s continue this tomorrow, yes? If the weather is so permitting, that is,” Jerahd propositions as he finally removes his gloves and apron, shucking off the stained experiment tunic and hanging it in a closet sequestered into the corner of the lab. 

“Of course, of course. It is so very nice outside today, as well, I was thinking of taking a stroll in the garden.” You wait for him as he finishes, having already put your equipment away. 

“Hoping to see anyone out there in particular?” There's a mischievous lilt to his voice as he nudges you lightly with his shoulder. You scratch at the scales along your jaw, refusing to meet his gaze as scales rise along your cheekbones. 

“Yes, well, maybe.” 

Jerahd’s muzzle wrinkles and he sticks the tip of his forked tongue out, seizing the moment to tease you in true little brother fashion. “Oh, how scandalous, master Tiberius! I hope sir de Rolo has his chaperone with him lest the two of you succumb to flights of fancy in the middle of the garden. How romantic to take him in the middle of the rose bushes-” 

You cut him off by clamping a hand firmly around his muzzle, cutting him off in the middle of his delve deep into… your deepest fantasies. 

“N-not now-” 

Jerahd jerks his muzzle out of your grasp and squeezes your forearm with both his hands, grinning. “Go on, you’re losing daylight!” 

Eventually, with much deliberating and dallying about to delay the inevitable, you find your way to the gardens ringing the easternmost wall of the castle, surrounded by a high stone wall to dissuade unsavory individuals that might seek to disrupt a pleasant afternoon such as this one. 

You find him sitting by the burbling fountain, surrounded by red roses peppered with baby’s breath and moonflowers with petals furled tightly closed till nightfall, foxglove and lilac swaying gently on long stems in the gentle breeze that carries the heady scent of sweet flowers to where you wait, pausing at the entrance to the small cove he’s found himself in. 

Along with the scent of flowers, you pick up a few stray notes of a sweet song on the breeze, notes melancholic and longing, singing of something sweet and hopeful. Even though it's in a tongue you don’t speak- you assume it's the native dialect of Whitestone- you gather that it's a happy song, something written about a faraway place, somewhere to feel safe, and loved, and happy. 

You step gently across the cobblestones, slowly, giving him plenty of time to notice you. Your hands are clasped in the small of your back and you reach out to run the tips of your claws over the petals of a nearby lilac, admiring the beautiful blooms in the garden. Out of the corner of your eye you catch Percy’s startled expression, music faltering off in a single, discordant note that becomes lost in the breeze. 

“Oh- sorry- I can leave-” he begins to stand and you extend a hand to stop him. 

“No, no, you’re fine, please. What was it that you were singing?” 

He flushes bright pink, fiddling with the stem of a foxglove nearby. “Well, uhm…” 

You sit down on a nearby low stone bench, legs folded elegantly over one another. You pat the stone bench next to you, making the most inviting grin you know how to shape your face into even as your heart does backflips into your throat and your stomach does an impressive rendition of dropping all the way to your feet. He stands, looking less like he wants to bolt, this time, and sits down next to you, nearly all the way on the other side of the bench. You squash down the urge to scoot closer to him, to wrap your arm over his shoulders and let him rest his head on your’s. 

“It’s a lullaby my mother used to sing to me when I was wee. She taught it to me, and I used to sing it to my siblings before bedtime, but… father made me stop. Said it was silly- frivolous, even.” He plucks at the nearby leaves of a rose bush and rips a leaf into shreds as he talks, the fingertips of his white satin gloves tinted faintly green. You furrow your brows, casting a quick glance around the garden. It appears the two of you have been left to your own devices. 

You scoot a bit closer to him, against your better judgement. 

“I’m… very sorry about that. Pardon my observations, but he doesn’t seem like a very, ah, nurturing man.” He snorts, a kind of sickened grin on his face. 

“No, that’s a very astute observation. He’s never been the most nurturing man. Usually, it was my mother who tended to us, when it wasn't a governess. Running a city-state tends to keep people rather busy, doesn’t it?” he grins at you. 

You grin back, sure all the scales on your cheeks are standing at full, flustered attention. “Tends to, yes. What’s the lullaby about, if I may ask?” 

“Oh, it’s about this beautiful green isle in the middle of an ocean, all peaceful and perfect and….” he trails off into a sigh, “I used to dream about going there as a child, you know. Kissing a handsome prince under a waterfall and swimming under the stars….” 

He emits another dreamy sigh and you restrain one of your own, though you’re hardly thinking about the green isle and the fantasy he’s describing. He looks so beautiful, lost in thought, warm golden light from the afternoon sun casting him a basking glow that makes a halo in his white hair. He seems even more like a doll now, or a painting of a god of love, one that blesses marriages and kisses babies on the forehead and lives in a… on a beautiful green isle behind a waterfall. 

“That does sound wonderful, yes. Maybe we can find it one day?” 

He turns to look at you, brows knit together ever so slightly. “‘We’?” 

“Yes, well, we are to be married, ah, rather soon, a-and we won't be running Draconia all the time, Faeryn and Jerahd and Drakkia can run it sometimes too, they’ve gotten the same training I have if not quite so intense, a-and-” you stumble over your words with increasing nervousness, backing up to where stalks of lush green leaves begin poking you in the small of your back. 

He blinks at you a few times, his own face nearly as red as your scales. “You haven’t a chaperone, do you?” 

“No, no, I don’t. Is sir Gardiner not accompanying you this afternoon?” 

“No, he’s resting. He felt ill from the heat.” 

“Why do you ask?” 

Instead of gracing you with an answer, Percy scoots along the bench towards you, and in one fluid motion he cups your chin in one delicate hand and places a chaste kiss of his soft, pink, human lips against your own lip plates. 

He pulls back with a grin, hand still cupping your chin, mischief making his big, bright, sapphire blue eyes twinkle. “Because I wanted to do that.” 

You feel a sharp smack to your jaw and suddenly you’re no longer in the garden with Percy, you’re sitting slumped up against the rows of cabinets in the lab on the cold stone floor, Jehrad peering down at you with a concerned expression, still wearing his lab equipment but having shucked off his gloves and headgear. 

“Tiberius? Do you feel alright?” 

You shake yourself out of the hazy stupor, standing shakily and steadying yourself on the metal cabinets behind you. Your mask sits on the ground a few feet away, and Jerahd appears to have contained or disposed of the experiement in the time that you were out. You rub at your temples, groaning. 

“Yes, I’m fine. Appears that Drow poison is still a powerful hallucinogen even when diluted. How long was I out?” you ask, hoping beyond hope you didn't talk while in your fantasy land. 

Jerahd shrugs. “A few minutes? You didn't miss anything important, I just disposed of the experiment before waking you up. What did you hallucinate?” 

“Nothing you need to know about.” 

Jerahd gets that familiar glint in his eye of a younger sibling about to pester you, and you groan inwardly. Really, you just want to go to the gardens and see if Percy is out there for real. 

“Oh? Was it a certain prince of Whitestone? Your fiancé?” 

You sock him- gently, for he is frail- on the shoulder, huffing. “Cut that out, dear little brother. Why don’t you accompany me to the gardens if you’re so intent on embarrassing me around him? I have a feeling he’s out there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Percy is described as singing here is "An Innis Aigh", a Scottish folk song. Next chapter there'll be actual lyrics to it! I'll post a link at the beginning notes next chapter to it so you can listen along as you read if you like.


	6. Pick

Jerahd steers you towards the gardens immediately with a firm hand on your shoulder. You could easily turn and stop him, but you’re afraid of hurting him. Despite the fact that the four of you are all full blooded siblings with the blood of Kruvanis Stormwind running through your veins, Jerahd ended up much smaller and weaker than you, Faeryn, and Drakkia. He’s taller than Drakkia but thin and reedy with wiry muscle, though not in the roguish way Drakkia is built. Instead of partaking in wrestling matches with the three of you when you were kids, Jerahd always took to the sidelines with a tome nearly as big as he was. As the four of you grew, Drakkia and Faeryn stayed in the physical path, Jerahd in the academic, and you flitted between.

Growing up, the four of you did spend many afternoons much like this one in the gardens, taking naps in soft beds of grass while the sun shone down on you, basking in the warm, golden light with the sweet scent of flowers in a sweet cloud overhead. The gardens are tucked into a corner in the easternmost wall, ringed with tall hedges and a fence to keep out intruders. A fountain burbles with clear water in the center of the gardens, encircled by rose bushes sprinkled with baby’s breath, foxglove, and lilac, bushes of a veritable rainbow range of flowers plotted around it. A few small stone benches, barely big enough for two people, were peppered among the flowers and greenery.

You blink once, twice, thrice, in near shock to actually find Percy there, singing a song like the one from your… hallucination? Daydream? One of the two.

It’s much more real now, the notes heavier and with more substance, able to make out actual words as they float on the warm, gentle breeze towards you. Jerahd pushes you forward and you resist the urge to drag your heels in the turf, stumbling forward and none too ceremoniously stumbling into a bush with the crack and rustle of stems and leaves.

“ _Càit' as tràith' an tig blàth air craoibh, càit' as bòidhche_ … oh, hello, Tiberius.” His singing peters off and he looks up at you, fiddling with a rose that seems to have fallen off the bush. His white satin gloves are tinted green at the fingertips, chlorophyll bleeding into the seams, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He likely has a thousand other pairs, all tailored to the delicate pianist’s shape of his hands.

“Sorry, sorry- so sorry- ah, please, continue, your, uhm- your singing. I-if you want, that is, uhm….” you cut yourself off into an awkward silence, realizing you’re still standing near waist deep in the bush and wade out of it. You brush the clinging stems and leaves off your clothes, tail tip whipping. Wading waist-deep into a bush probably wasn’t the most smooth way to garner his attention.

You straighten the lapels of your robes, pinching the frames of your glasses between the tips of two claws to slide them further up your snout. He blinks at you curiously, a few rose petals scattered on the ground and the bench around him.

“You, uhm, you look rather lovely t-today- n-not to say that you don’t look lovely all the time, that is- ah- I mean-” you clamp your snout shut with the click of teeth to stop your train of bumbling. He giggles politely behind a hand, his nose wrinkling and eyes twinkling in a way that makes your heart flutter up into your throat.

“Thank you, you look rather handsome as well,” he murmurs softly as you take a tentative seat on the bench next to him, preparing to jump if this goes at all wrong and you need to save face- what little face you might have left, that is, with your bumbling, flustered nature.

He does look very lovely; the sun brings out the pink in his high cheekbones and the twinkling sparkle in his sapphire blue eyes. He’s wearing a long, fitted double-breasted coat in the traditional Whitestone blue overtop a blue waistcoat of the same fabric and color, despite the heat. The brass buttons on his coat shine in the sunlight and a white boutonniere rose that you assume to be fabric whispers with the soft rustle of fabric against his crisp black cravat as he picks a petal off the rose in his hands. His crisp black slacks are littered with petals and the soft grass rises around his shiny leather shoes planted lightly on the ground.

By contrast, you’re wearing more of a loose frock of light silk with a wrap tied around your waist, extending to brush along the ground when you walk. Your loose pants, tied around the ankle, are patterned in red and silver, and your shirt is a light grey, bell sleeves lined with a light lace, high collar buttoned nearly up to the latch of your throat. Your clothing is much more suited to the climate of Draconia, though it isn’t surprising his isn’t considering the constant chill and ice of Whitestone. He’ll have plenty of time to get clothing tailored, though you’re surprised he hasn’t started boiling yet. Humans seem to be so susceptible to changes in the weather, though it hasn’t even reached the peak of summer yet, when the heat makes you sluggish and slow to respond even in the stone of the castle.

You fiddle with the end of the wrap around your waist, looking anywhere but at him. He hasn’t picked his song back up, despite your assurances that he could.

From the snippet you heard, his voice is beautiful and haunting, reminding you of the herding call you once heard Keyleth do when you were exploring the nearby fields of stock animals when you were younger. His voice is a bit higher than hers, surprisingly, with a different cadence than his speaking voice entirely. You wonder where he learned to sing, if someone taught him at all.

“My mother taught me.” he pipes up from beside you, a gentle smile on his face.

“Hm?” startled, you’re only able to eek out a questioning noise.

He smiles down at his rose, picking off another petal. “You’ve been talking aloud to yourself for the past few minutes. It’s rather endearing.”

You splutter for a moment, the scales along your cheekbones and snout rising in lieu of a blush. You scratch at the back of your neck, too flustered to string together a coherent sentence.

“W-what’s it about?” you ask, worrying the fabric of your pant leg between your thumb and forefinger. He sighs wistfully, twirling the stem of the now nearly petaless rose back and forth in his hand.

“A dreamy little island in a far off sea, where it was only ever sunny and flowers bloomed all year long. I always dreamed of going there as a child, I was so hopelessly devastated when I learned it wasn't a real island.” He chuckles, and it's tinged with melancholy. “Always wanted some handsome prince to whisk me off my feet and take me there to live a beautiful life in a resplendent castle in the forest.”

You chuckle nervously, working up the nerve to scoot closer to him on the little stone bench. He turns to you, then, and you can almost swear he's batting those delicate ivory lashes at you.

“Did you ever dream of things like that as a child?”

You think for a moment. “Not that I can remember. I mostly thought about ancient books and adventures to find relics, or being revered as a powerful sorcerer. Sometimes science, as well, though I didn't get much into that once father deemed me old enough with enough fine motor control to conduct experiments mostly by myself. Jerahd quickly joined in with me after that. Frankly, i'm not sure if that alleviated his nerves or made them worse.”

He giggles delicately and brushes a few rose petals off his thighs. They flutter slowly to the ground, twirling in the light breeze.

“What were you doing with that rose, may I ask?”

His cheeks pinken and he looks down at the stem in his hands, fiddling with the leaves. “Oh, you know that silly thing where schoolchildren pick a flower and pick the petals off to see if someone likes them or not? It's… silly, but I felt like doing it. Probably shouldn’t’ve, though. I hope the gardeners won't be too mad?”

You shake your head, tail curling around the legs of the bench. How desperately it seems to want to curl around his legs, or his waist, though you can't quite tell if that's it having a mind of its own, like usual, or you failing to suppress the puppy love that's overtaken you.

Its as he’s tossing the stem to the side and inspecting the light green coloring that's seeped into the fingertips of his gloves that you remember the letter you found on his desk. Your heart sinks into your stomach and you feel… cold. This is all some ploy, isn't it? Something to make you fall head over heels for him? He must just be having fun toying with your emotions, then. You know he's incredibly intelligent, but you didn't think he was the kind to employ his genius mind in a sadistic manner.

You stand suddenly, back ramrod straight, and he looks up at you, brows drawn in confusion. Your jaw is tight and it feels like there's a coiled spring in your stomach, guts twisting uncomfortably. You really are a bumbling fool, aren't you. Too much of an easy target.

“I apologize, I’ve suddenly remembered a prior engagement I have. Good day to you, Percy.” You nod tersely and pace quickly back into the castle. Jerahd is leaned up against the wall, like he’s pretending he wasn't just peering out at the two of you in the garden through the window, and gives you a concerned, confused look.

“Tiberius-” he starts, and you shoot him a stern glare, hand up to cut off his questioning.

“Not now, Jerahd.”

Not caring how loud the click of your claws echoes through the castle, or for the concerned looks your family members cast upon you from doorways, or the way passing servants almost seem to cower as you pass them in a huff. You've been fooled. You don't have time to care.

You throw open the door to your chambers and lock it behind you, clawing at your clothes and tossing them aside carelessly. Lockheed flaps and screeches in his cage in the corner of the room and you soften, forcing yourself to relax so as not to scare him. He chitters at you, concerned, crawling up to your shoulder as you let him out of his cage and nestling in the crook of your neck. You idly scratch underneath his chin and feel the gentle rumble of his purr against your collarbone.

“Oh, Lockheed. What are we to do?”

Once again, he does not have an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this was so short! i hope you enjoyed it anyway <3


	7. Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day because I have no self control but technically not in one day because it's after midnight here when I posted this c:

After that, admittedly, you start avoiding him.

Dinner is awkward, only exchanging polite conversation with Percy before bolting off to your room as soon as you’re excused, not actively seeking him out and, though you’re not proud of it, you’ve cast Invisibility on yourself a few times to escape a room he suddenly entered when you weren’t expecting him. You’ve studied magic for many many years, you might as well use it whenever you damn well please.

It appears that your family quickly picked up on your ornery state, for this game of delicately dancing around Percy continues for the better part of a week before your father more or less corners you in the music room one sunny afternoon.

Light spills in from the window on the wall behind you, spilling over your shoulder and dancing across the pages of music sitting on top of the piano. Your sleeves are stained with ink, peppered nearly up to your elbows, and you don’t doubt there’s a smudge on your collar somewhere, but you’re too deep into this burst of creative energy to care. You’d been meaning to write a new piano piece for weeks, but hadn’t found the time to hole yourself up in the music room with all that’s been happening lately. You aren’t sure what this piece is for, or even what you’re going to name it.

You’re so deep into hammering away at the piano keys that you don’t hear Kruvanis come up behind you, the quiet shuffle of his feet against stone, till you stop to scratch out the most recent notes onto the sheets of music splayed out in front of you. You look to the side and see his shadow moments before his palm drops to your shoulder, the deep, bass rumble of his voice reverberating through the room.

“Tiberius. We need to talk.”

You inwardly wince. Whenever he says your name in that intonation, followed by, “we need to talk”, it generally entails exchanging stiff conversation for the better part of an hour. You love your father, you really do, but he doesn’t do the whole emotions thing. He has feelings, you know he does, and he’s a very caring person, but his difficulty expressing emotions is something Faeryn inherited, and you struggle with as well.

You turn to look at him, quill still in hand, peering up at him. You feel like a child again, like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t’ve, peering up at him through glasses that are far too big for you, feeling like he’s the tallest man in the world. Now that you’ve reached your adult height, he only has a few inches on you, but those few inches can still feel like miles.

Your father, Kruvanis Stormwind, cuts a very imposing figure. He’s tall and broad, with dusky brass scales torn with scars. He’s muscular, somewhere between you and Faeryn, his muscle mass dulled only slightly by age. He’s not that old to have had four hatchlings, but years of running Draconia have aged him, cosmetically, faster than other dragonborn his age. He was in military training for a few years as well, when he was about your age, and retained the stern militant nature from those years. He always seemed like the most amazing man in the world to you as a child, and if you’re being honest with yourself, he still does.

He squeezes your shoulder, pulling up a chair from nearby so he can look you in the eye. He sits gingerly, like he’s as ready to bolt as you are, and clears his throat awkwardly.

“So,” he starts, legs crossed and folded hands resting on his knee.

“So….” you parrot, setting your quill down and self-consciously pulling at the cuffs of your sleeves.

“It is abundantly clear that you are avoiding Percival- Percy, excuse me- this past week. Why is that so?”

Always right to the point, he is.

You shrug. “I’m not sure.”

He squints, brow ridges narrowing further over his eyes. Those two golden-orange dots seem to bore into you and you squirm uncomfortably. “Do not play coy with me like this, Tiberius. This is a simple talk, father to son, man to man.”

You snort. “It’s never just a simple talk with a Stormwind.”

He chuckles softly, even though you can tell he’s attempting to keep a solemn mask. This is a decently serious manner. If you were in his position, you’d be concerned if your son were suddenly avoiding his betrothed after appearing nothing but head over heels for him since he arrived.

Now that you think about it like that it is decently concerning….

“Please, do just tell me what is wrong. You seem very frustrated.” He fixes you with a serious look (though almost all of his looks are serious), “have you shed recently?”

You splutter, the scales along your cheeks rising, picking self-consciously at the dry scales flaking off between your fingers. It’s true, you’re known to get ornery when a shed is approaching, though it’s not like it’s exactly your fault. Anyone would be ornery if their movements felt stiff and controlled, you just take a bit of a longer time to get down to the sand pits below the castle than you responsibly should. You’re a very busy person, in your defense.

He turns your head from side to side, hand on your chin, squinting at the scales along your jaw. “You’re looking a bit grey there, might want to urge that shed, yes? I fear you may be scaring your betrothed with this… temper tantrum.”

Your heart sinks, and you know your father can tell. You hadn’t thought you might be _scaring_ Percy through all of this, though it’s not entirely improbable. You’re much larger than he is, and red scaled dragonborn already have the reputation of being angry with short tempers, though you’re not sure if he knows about that stigma- he doesn’t appear to know as much about dragonborn culture as you would’ve hoped. He could even so, he’s been fooling you this entire time.

You clench your jaw, steam emitting from your nostrils in small puffs. “He’s been playing me like a damn fiddle, Papa.”

Concern fully, truly clouds his expression. “Playing you? I did not take him for that kind of person.”

“He’s very charismatic.”

“Even so, what gave you that impression? I like him well enough. Your mother thinks highly of him, as well. Is there something that happened in private we need know about?” You worry the fabric of the sash tied around your waist in your hands, looking down, shame making the scales along your jaw and cheeks rise in a discordant flutter.

“Did sir Gardiner tell you how… how I was in his room? In Percy’s chambers?”

Kruvanis leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Yes, but I did not deem it important at the time. You had just fallen ill. That was, ultimately, more important than any debauchery I do not think you would be getting up to.”

“No, no, I was just delivering him to his chambers after he’d taken a little tumble in the training room!”

He grins, just a little, the corner of his mouth twitching briefly upwards and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “I know, I know, do not worry. Please, continue.”

“Well, I… may have found a few things in his room.” A heavily scarred brass brow ridge rises at “things”.

“What kind of ‘things’?”

“Nothing criminalizing, just letters to family-”

“Tiberius-”

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t’ve read them! I’m sorry! It’s not like he even knows, though, he was fully well asleep nearly as soon as his head hit the pillow.”

“Just because he does not know does not make it any better, Tiberius.”

“I know, I’m sorry, Papa.” You duck your head in shame.

“I am not the one you should be apologizing to. Continue with your story.”

“Well, in this letter, to his father, he was talking about- about how boorish I am, and how he’s only tolerating me. This whole time I thought he liked me as much as I like him! But he’s just been playing a game with my heart.” You fist your hand in the fabric of your tunic, over where your heart feels like it’s turned to lead. It aches, nearly the same ache you feel every time Keyleth has to retreat back into the forest after one of her rare and far too short visits in the castle, but much more poignant. It hurts, but not a logical hurt, not something you can have a physician examine you for. It’s a debilitating hurt, almost. An ache than pangs whenever you look at him, look into those big blue eyes, framed by those snowy white lashes, hear that laugh that’s reminiscent of tinkling bells. “It hurts, Papa.”

Your tone is much more quiet than you meant it to be, and once again, you feel like a child. Like a child who’s run to his father after scraping his knee. Nothing major, even, but to a child it feels like everything, and your papa is supposed to be able to fix anything and everything.

He places a hand on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I know, Tiberius. The heart is a fickle thing. I cannot tell you what you should do from here, nor what is true and what is false, but I think you should apologize to him for reading his private letters. If this relationship the two of you are to have is to be anything, it must be built on trust. This secret will only fester more the longer you leave it secret.”

You look up at him, running the back of your hand over your cheek where a few hot tears have slipped out, running in the tracks between the fine scales.

“Alright, Papa. I will.”

He smiles at you, and you give him a small, watery smile back. Your father’s smiles are rare, which makes them all the more special. They’re reserved for family only, for the people who share parts of his heart. You can count the times on one hand you’ve caught him smiling softly at your mother, with the face of a man in the deepest of love, holding her smaller hand in his and running a thumb over the back of her hand. Every one of those moments you’ve caught has felt like something private, like something you shouldn’t be witnessing. Such displays of deep, passionate love that runs deep in both of their veins for each other isn’t something an outsider should witness, even if that outsider is their first-born.

“Good man. You will make a fine ruler, one day.” He brushes his knuckles gently a few times over the space between your horns, and you feel safe, taken care of, like you’re a little kid again- but this time it’s the trust that he’ll make everything better, that he knows what’s right.

You wait till he leaves, the soft shuffle of his feet against the marble floor echoing lightly behind him, and cast a glance towards Lockheed, who is sleeping soundly on the piano. You reach over to scratch his chin and he purrs, slowly blinking open one yellow eye to peer at you, yawning.

“Well, Lockheed,” you tell him as he stretches like a cat in the sun, pacing over the piano keys to clamber up onto your shoulder and chirp in your ear, “looks like we have a plan after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've had a moment with each of the sibs, so now it was due time for a moment with papa Stormwind! There'll be a moment coming up with mama Penelope sometime soon, don't worry, but for now it's miscommunication city here in Castle Stormwind.

**Author's Note:**

> a tentative yeehaw


End file.
